


don't let it in with no intention to keep it jesus christ

by drphil



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Blowjobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Vague Dom/Sub Undertones, lack of praise kink, takes place during the stakeout in s2e8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drphil/pseuds/drphil
Summary: Even in his haze, Holden notices the sudden turn Bill takes, veering off-course. “Where are you—““You shut the fuck up,” Bill spits, “and finish yourself off.”





	don't let it in with no intention to keep it jesus christ

Bill has found that over the years, post-warp from the mental strain of behavioral sciences moderated by the federal government, systemizing is key. Gathering your problems, dividing them by rank, and carefully stowing them away has become a good crutch to lean on. Not a foolproof one, but regimented enough to get by, feel borderline content, spend some time minding his _own _ business. 

Adoptive son is so alienated from only you in particular that it’s given you unyielding insomnia for six years straight? Work will keep you busy. Rope it off. Bureau higher-ups think your round-the-clock work is a crock of shit? Back burner, keep chugging. A once-doting wife who no longer offers a glance up when you come in the door, significantly due to aforementioned repressed son, now presents you with nothing but a mirror of your innate inability to communicate? Close that door, and lock it tight. Later.

You plunge headfirst into a furtive affair with your hot, young, fundamentally-clueless male partner? Open the door to a motel room. 

Because it can stay in there. You can trap it, work it down, let it burn and swirl and smoke and never speak of it outside those paper-thin walls. Rest assured, there’s nothing to worry about; the kid is smart, he’ll keep his head down. It isn’t worth the fucking headache, it’s not some paramount life-altering arrangement, it’s a – well-earned – way to blow off some steam after looking at dead fucking families all day. And besides, nothing can be worse than the work they’re doing, the effort they’re putting into a heartless system, the pain they’re trying to prevent. Everyone needs an outlet.

But Holden — he likes to mix up the classifications. It’s just his style, Bill doesn’t know why he doesn’t expect this: an uncharacteristic smile from across the room, right over Gunn’s head (a mask on Holden’s face that would most certainly alert any of these fucking _ profilers _ that something was out of the ordinary); a note left on his desk, in clear view of Wendy and Gregg and whatever other sad fuck ever bothered to breach the confines of the basement; a hand on his thigh, beneath the table where _ nearly _ everything is obscured, in front of Jerome fucking Brudos, no less.

Holden isn’t naive, either, he’s just got gall. Hasn’t sprouted the cojones for anything else in his life, other than making moony-eyes at anyone that’s witnessed a decapitation and trying to get Bill hard in the middle of an interrogation room for the sport of it.

Bill doesn’t quite know when he parted ways with Debbie (because, of course, he’d never talk about _ that _ outside of a rented room with inmate visitation forms and golf clubs) (though, there’s not much talking in there to begin with), but he knows it happened somewhere along the way, and definitely not after “_this_.” He can’t tell at work, because Holden wouldn’t blink if a bomb went off under his desk, but he can in the car, when he picks him up outside his apartment, where he’s never late, clothes always pressed, bags cleanly and methodically packed, because he had nothing else to do. He can in the way he sips their shitty room service coffee that they have to order separately but still share for some reason and stares off into space, his blue eyes sharply fixated on some invisible figure, his jaw clenched so tightly it must ache on the drive home. He can tell, unequivocally, in bed. Sometimes he wonders if he had anything to do with it, but that enters abeyance almost immediately, without fail, right back into the room.

So, compartmentalizing is a doctor’s note, but in this case, not a prescription.

Fourteen bridges. Ten-hour shifts, split between nearly fifty officers. A stakeout, what an unparalleled policeman ideal. Holden’s still grasping at straws trying to push their agenda, the single unidentified subject with a penchant for young African American males, but when the concept of desperately waiting him out comes up, Bill’s almost grateful for the disgusting circumstances that allow him to give in to his reluctance. Ten hours, in the dark, with Holden. They’re still confined, sure, alone, alone _ together_, but having privacy outside of... He didn’t ask for this. Holden did. Bill can’t afford to take that fork in the road, but more importantly, he can’t allow Holden to veer any further down it, either.

The first few days, he manages to get himself partnered with the Atlanta officers. Redding and Barney keep his company, keep him full of coffee to balance out the irregular shifts, and the only bits of after-hours Holden he has to endure is a few radio calls about their complete lack of progress.

But, naturally, the boys in blue squander them off together, the two big house agents who can more than help each other. They’re effectively isolated. And, inevitably, it stays that way.

Part of Bill wants to pull Holden aside and lay down some ground rules, make some things about his “tendencies” crystal clear and indefensible, but that would require acknowledging It, “It” pertaining to this little recreational federal exploit that isn’t worth bringing up. So he tries to keep himself busy, brings along notes about the case that don’t really amount to Holden’s anyway, sudoku puzzles and bets on the race that mysteriously disappear. Most of his time winds up being devoted to keeping his eyes at least a quarter of the way open, and getting to smack Holden when his are half.

And it’s surprisingly easy to deal with for the first week or so. The others come to distract them, take shifts when they’re tired, exchange leads and objectives, and before Bill knows it, the sun is rising over the horizon and it’s time to escape, return to his bed and keep it mulling around in the forced darkness of his empty room until the following evening, or the next plane back to Quantico.

But he figures out quickly that it’s around 9 p.m., after their nightly conferencing, when the sky melts into a deep purple dotted with the few stars that manage to shine through the light pollution, as they file out into their unmarked police cars to head towards the outskirts of town, that Holden likes to hazard his chances. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, but the strain in the air is so fucking thick that Bill wants to get out of the car and just give chase to any suspects they might encounter. He can feel it when Holden scolds him for the amount of cigarettes he lights up, because it reminds him of how Holden had murmured that he secretly loves that taste on his tongue. It’s there when Holden silently tops off his thermos with more coffee, and then just as wordlessly helps himself to a sip of it before returning it to his designated driver’s side cupholder. There’s no denying it when Holden slaps a mosquito off his arm for him and lets his fingers linger there much longer than necessary. He’s almost listening to Bill’s unspoken words. Almost. 

But, as it fucking happens, Holden feels like he can get away with blurring those lines even further under the veil of dusk. In fact, he relishes in Bill’s irritation that instantaneously bubbles to the surface, he knows he does. Probably turns the jackass on.

One night the following week, as Bill pulls the car out of the hotel parking lot, switching on headlights that barely provide any illumination in the red-orange glow of the setting sun, Holden says something he doesn’t quite catch. His first instinct is to ignore it outright, but, of course, he gives a little reflexive, maybe curious, “Huh?”

“Been a while.”

Bill doesn’t let himself look past anything other than a shitty joke. “Yeah. Eight whole hours of a severe lack of depravity.”

“No,” Holden says gently, and Bill’s brow is already heavily obscuring his vision. “That’s not what I meant.”

Holden’s hand doesn’t touch him, not at first, but it slides to his side of the council, very near where his own grips the gearshift. Bill tightens his fingers, says nothing.

“I miss it, you know,” Holden offers.

It’s like training a fucking dog. If he doesn’t respond, the little shit won’t do it anymore. He wants to make a comment about the case, try and redirect him, but something inside him won’t let him, it feels too rude. _ Rude? _ That conclusion succeeds in nothing but flaring his own temper. He stares straight ahead, out at the endless dotted yellow lines of the asphalt, struggling to empty his mind.

Holden’s fingers touch his wrist and he all but recoils. “When we didn’t have enough funding to afford separate rooms. Or a hotel with multiple floors.”

“Multiple floors to get away from your ass.” Bill yanks his arm away, but he has to shift gears again. Holden doesn’t replace his hand but he doesn’t draw it back.

“Thought you liked my ass,” Holden says, leaning in further, like he’s getting to the core of an interrogation. “Actually, as I recall, I think you _ love _ it.”

Bill wishes he had enough dexterity to kick him in the teeth. He still won’t look at him, but he hopes the glowering he’s aiming at the windshield is enough to fog up his side and make him shut his trap.

For a moment he does, and his fingers do the talking, creeping up his forearm, dropping off Bill’s elbow to touch his upper thigh, fan out across the sensitive skin, and Bill is surprised he can even swallow with how taut the column of his neck is. 

He almost barks out a protest, but settles on a cease and desist. “We talk about this case, or you shut the hell up,” he grits out.

Holden straightens up, nodding. “We can do that.” He opens the file next to him. The relief Bill feels is tepid at best.

Holden searches through his notes for a moment, and then his finger drags and stops over a certain spot. “Here. Remember Paul Bateson? I’ve drawn some parallels.”

Christ. Whatever keeps him talking.

“Specifically, disposal of the bodies, but that much is obvious,” he continues, folding over another page. Bill steps on the gas. “Passing over the dismemberment and bagging, the choice of the Hudson River coupled with the lack of identification…”

That’s over. Bill gets to tune out. Whatever’s pent up in Holden’s system can come out when he inevitably jerks off to some Manson album later. He does wonder if Holden has the number to his room.

He hardly hears anything he’s reading off, but on the edge of his vision, he realizes Holden has an arm pressed between the car door and his side, and his hand is venturing down the folds of his pants legs bunched between his thighs. When it stays there, and his fingers start scraping against the leather of the seat, with _ movement_, Bill's ears force themselves open again.

“So when the association of ignominy with sex begins to signal his desire for control,” he’s saying, and it goes without mention that this most likely hasn’t had much to do with the case so far, “it’s a bit like he’s obsessed, but not with the targets — with the notion of complete autonomy.”

Bill still doesn’t grant him full-on eye contact, but he does throw a look in his general direction, narrowing his eyes.

Taking the cue, Holden slumps down in the seat just a hair further, and his fingers come together in a cupping motion.

“He likes to be in charge,” he says, and his tone is low, but inquisitive, like he’s dangling his bid right in front of Bill’s nose, innocent and off the cuff. “And only in the instance of being provoked by defiance does he react...”

There’s something visible in his starchy-ass pants now, and that’s enough for Bill to cut him off and snap, “What do you _ want? _”

Holden knows enough to train his eyes straight ahead on the road. “Well, I’d love to be laid out in that back seat right now,” he says out of the side of his mouth.

“I’ll pull over,” Bill says airily. 

Holden perks up. Bill can fucking hear his heart skip a beat. 

“To throw your ass out on the curb,” he snarls. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

They drive on in silence for a few more minutes, and it seems like Bill’s succeeded in corking it back up, but Holden’s breathing is deeper than normal, a little bit shaky, and his hand hasn’t moved. He shifts around in his seat, once, twice, and then, against his better judgement, Bill opens his mouth again.

“Lewis,” he says, slowly, laboredly, “is meeting us there. You moron. Cut it out.”

He knew he shouldn’t have taken the bait because Holden leaps right on the passing mention of _ It_. “Lewis is meeting us in about fifteen minutes.”

“Ten.” Bill’s instincts are to furiously slam on the brakes at a stop sign, maybe put his head through the windshield, but instead he rolls through it, hoping it illustrates his point.

“We’ve got a whole night ahead of us. But aren’t you flattered, Bill? I just can’t stop thinking about you.”

The words make Bill physically roll his eyes, huff, but the tug deep within his stomach reminds him it’s genuinely hard not to be, since this is Holden, who’s young and brilliantly, infuriatingly intelligent, and sometimes, especially in the early mornings, so beautiful that it takes Bill’s breath away as he tries to wriggle his way out his arms when their alarms go off. Not that he would ever, ever admit that to another soul, living or dead.

“No,” he says, just as much to himself as to Holden. “Try thinking about remaining employed.”

Holden’s other hand knows better, sliding over Bill’s knee, and he bats it away.

“Christ, Holden, we are not rolling up to a stakeout covered in cum,” he hisses, half-hoping the graphic image knocks some sense into him.

To his dismay, though, Holden’s dirty talk has become much more refined since, well, Bill. There’s a split-second pause, then a breathy chuckle, and Bill knows he’s stepped in it.

“Oh, Bill,” Holden murmurs, and it sounds like sex, like a guarantee. “If that’s what you’re worried about, I promise I’ll clean up every last drop of it.”

Bill could just shoot him on this empty road and no one would know. Or he could just veer off into a tree and take them both out. The thought of the APD rolling up on the scene to discover Bill with his pants around his ankles is a little much for his obituary, though. He sighs, or tries to, but his breath is caught in his chest.

“You miss it,” Holden’s saying somewhere in the downward spiral this is taking. Bill does miss it, misses him. “Stop acting like you don’t want this. If we were back at the hotel, you’d barely get me through the door—”

“Alright.” Bill doesn’t even hear himself say it. 

Holden still sits tight, too smart to think he’s not being tested, so Bill thumps a fist on the dashboard and startles him. 

“C’mon, we don’t have all day,” he says, gesturing to the sliver of daylight left, waning over the trees. Then, at Holden’s pants. “Go ahead.”

Holden pauses for a second longer, and then he obediently unfastens his trousers, reaching into his underwear with both his hands like some kind of asshole. When he takes his dick out it’s only half hard, which is somehow more obscene than if a throbbing rock-solid erection tore its way through his zipper, but he doesn’t make any effort with his half-closed fist, just strokes lazily with the pad of his thumb, up and down, petting. He’s fucking waiting for further instruction.

“Go on,” Bill grips the steering wheel. “I ain’t helping. Fucking pervert.”

Holden smiles. “Ah,” is all he says, and Bill’s so bitter that he just exhales a short, stressed-out hum.

He tries to ignore it, knowing exactly how futile that is, the entirety of his vision occupied with how the sleeve of Holden’s shirt moves out of the very corner of his eye, the roar of the engine obscured by the slow, heavy breaths he hears next to him as Holden closes his fist the rest of the way around himself and sighs at the relief. At least he knows enough to hold his tongue for now. His other hand falls to the edge of the seat, motionless, but Bill can feel through the material of the bench that it’s squeezed tightly in his grasp.

Then he says, “Thank you,” chipper and only vaguely strained, and that’s enough to re-launch Bill.

“Yeah, like you don’t know what you want.”

“What I want?” Holden says lightly. His head drops back against the seat.

“It’s all about you, Hold.”

“Well, I want to give you what you want.” Holden lets his head loll until he’s looking at Bill and it makes Bill’s face burn. He’s thankful for the magnitude of headlights to occasionally keep his eyes on the road.

He pointedly doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t stop Holden.

“Are you sure?” Holden says, and it isn't clear if his eyes are darker or it’s just an illusion with how low his voice has dropped already. His hand snakes up Bill’s knee, over his inner thigh and right up to where he quickly realizes he’s already filling out. “‘Cause it seems like…”

“Fuck you,” Bill says, rolling his hips up into Holden’s grasp. 

He wouldn’t put it past Holden to try and crawl in his lap while he’s driving, or grab at the steering wheel and force him to the side of the road, but curiously, he doesn’t so much as lean towards him. Instead, he presses back against the passenger seat, hollowing his middle, sinking even more deeply against the cushion as he slides down and up into his own hand. His other arm stays outstretched, trapping Bill’s cock against his leg, uncoordinatedly rubbing against it and making it very difficult to concentrate on operating a moving vehicle.

Bill’s shoulders are nearly up by his ears, his whole body pulled taut, but he won’t let himself pay Holden any mind. His dick thinks otherwise, and that clearly motivates Holden to stroke himself faster, harder, letting little noises out between the obscene flap of the zipper against fabric under his fist.

“You’re a fucking psychopath,” he uses as an excuse to look over at Holden, and then bites out, “Fuck.”

Holden’s still facing him but his eyes have fallen shut, not tight, but fluttering gently, brow pinched in the center of his forehead. His mouth is parted in a silent breath, lower lip wet and bitten at. His hand is getting limper in Bill’s lap and it doesn’t even bother him, Holden looks so lost, so far away in something so nice and he, too, forgets momentarily where they are. Bill’s line of sight darts exclusively back and forth between the way his eyes are rolling back in his skull and the way his cock slips through his fingers, and he doesn’t remember to look at the road until he feels the dirt of the shoulder beneath the tires.

“You're gonna get us killed doing that, baby,” he breathes, barely audible over the sound of the car kicking up rocks.

Holden moans softly. “Then don’t look.” His eyes drift open and meet Bill’s, a flush spreading over his cheeks, and he squeezes Bill’s thigh, hard.

Despite himself, he moves against Holden as much as he can; well, as much as driving will allow. Holden’s knees thud against the glovebox, he’s slumping so far down in his seat, and Bill can’t tell if it’s in the midst of bliss or for his viewing pleasure. Either way, Holden still finds it within himself to fucking laugh at him when the speed of the car changes abruptly. 

They can’t be more than two minutes out from the bridge. Holden doesn’t look like he’s in any state to speak – say anything other than Bill’s name – let alone give up the position of “disobedient subordinate” or whatever his twisted mind is getting off on. He keeps Bill hanging there, drawing it out so god damn slowly, with precise fingers, calculated rhythm.

Bill is still fully aware if he reached over he’d be able to finish Holden off without even matching his pace; Hold would just snatch at his sleeve, dig his nails deep into his arm, fly right off the handle the moment Bill touches him the way he always does. But his hands remain planted on the steering wheel, not-so-firmly. The deep maroon of the sky reflects off the calm surface of the water, cut off in black at the shoreline, where the vantage point lies some hundreds of feet down the road.

Even in his haze, Holden notices the sudden turn Bill takes, the car skidding haphazardly down a side street. “Where are you—“

“You shut the fuck up,” Bill spits, “and finish yourself off.”

Holden doesn’t laugh this time. 

Bill doesn’t even know where he’s fucking driving, and the thought of getting lost, being even later, or better yet, lost, late, and in danger, drifts out of his mind almost as soon as it enters it. All he can see is Holden loosening his tie, weakly bucking up into his own hand, making the most undignified sounds under Bill’s vetting.

He lets one hand slide off the steering wheel and grab Holden’s on his leg below, letting slip a groan as he presses it harder into his lap, makes up for the laxness. Their fingers intertwine and he clamps down over Holden’s knuckles, half-hoping it hurts.

Holden’s not afraid to let his mouth run loose any more. “God, Bill, I want to blow you,” he’s moaning beside him, leaning against the council now, so close to him that Bill can feel the heat from his ragged breath. “So bad, I want – _ you _ – please let me—“

Static crackles from the radio. “Where the hell is 15? Ford, Tench, where are you?” 

Fucking surreal. Bill untangles his hand from Holden’s and snatches the radio, grinning through gritted teeth, trying to tether himself back to reality while Holden’s words melt to a quiet whimper beside him. He remains ready to backhand him with it as he presses the button. 

“Almost there, sorry,” Bill says, letting go of the button while he thinks of some sort of excuse, but comes up with nothing when Holden falls against his shoulder, turning to bite through the fabric, mouth at his skin. 

“Shake a fuckin’ leg,” comes the shorthand response. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

Hurrying is not Bill’s fashion, especially not at this particular moment. He itches to guide Holden’s hand back to his twitching cock, shift against his palm again like some fucking teenager, but he makes himself resist lest they’re never seen again. He’s driving abnormally slow, only half-searching for a place to turn around. When he checks the rearview mirror for other cars, he notices he’s leaned so far back against Holden that he can’t see out the back windshield anymore.

He picks a driveway and throws the car in reverse a little too fast. He doesn’t even know if Holden notices, he’s latched onto his neck, his teeth pinching his jaw as the car lurches.

“You heard him,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “Faster, honey.”

At this rate, he could just open his own driver side door and Holden would probably fall out on the bridge himself. Unfortunately, there’s no more beautiful sound in the world than Holden moaning, and the car is full of it, Bill can’t even crack a steamed-up window in fear one of those irresistible sounds might escape. And someone might fucking hear it.

“I’m almost, aah,” he bites out into Bill’s collar, his free hand shakily grasping at Bill’s forearm. His fingers slide down his skin with their slickness. “Bill, Bill—“

“Yeah?” Bill says, letting him flounder. “Finally?” 

Holden gasps, those tiny noises of contentment neither of them can understand muffled against Bill’s shoulder. Bill’s discovered he can be about as blunt with him as he wants: there’s something about a slight corrective hand, one of Bill's gruff chidings that just breaks him down, and then he’s weaving in those light, feather-soft gestures in what he’d meant to be risky, raunchy, highly-illegal sex. Something that satisfyingly hits home, probably harder for Bill than anyone else. Like he _ needs _ Holden to ache for that from him. Maybe even outside of a hotel.

“Almost there,” Bill murmurs, about either the stakeout or Holden, fighting to sound like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His cock aches with every clutch at his arm, tug of his shirt. “Hurry up.”

He doesn’t even reach for Holden now, holds silent and still, almost as if he’s not there, and Holden _ loves _ it. The sound he makes when he stiffens, his whole arm wrapping around Bill’s and crushing it, is downright desperate. 

Bill can stand to watch Holden shaking and helpless, loves that he’s completely unhinged, clinging tightly to Bill but trying to buck up into his own hand all the same, until all his muscles lock up and the breath bottoms out of his lungs as he comes all over his hand.

It’s perfectly-timed, too. Bill finds the main road again and swings back on track, the taillights of one of the police cruisers glowing faintly in the distance. Holden’s still panting against him, like he’s hurt, like he got the poison out and the pain is blissfully subsiding, fist pumping slower and slower, coated and glossy even in the dark. Bill knows he shouldn’t be swerving around within sight like a maniac, but like fuck he’s not gonna look.

“Fuck, Bill,” Holden groans. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, bet you haven’t come that hard in a while,” Bill says as he shrugs him off halfheartedly. “Get yourself together, felon.”

Then they’re snapped out of the haze, lost in a flurry of doing up ties, straightening clothes, rolling down foggy windows. Regrettably, the only thing Holden doesn’t have time for is his oath of personal hygiene, as he hurriedly jams his hand down between the door and the seat and straightens up. Bill’s smile is the hardest thing to wipe off his face. 

As Bill pulls in, offering a friendly wave to Lewis who’s impatiently leaned against his own car, still running where it’s parked in the reeds, he doesn’t move in his seat; no one’s going to be looking at his dick, it’s too dark to tell he’s so hard against his leg that it fucking hurts. He knows Holden knows well enough to hold his goddamn breath if he has to, he’s still gulping and shivering, but he wishes he’d at least have fixed his hair.

“Hey, Lou, sorry ‘bout the holdup,” he says loudly, throwing the car into park and killing the engine. “Didn’t realize I missed a turn.”

“Some feds you are,” Lewis says, leaning over the hood of his car, where he’s been keeping three coffees warm. He’s already holding their assignments, the sides of the papers wrinkled from the sweat from someone’s palms who’s been clutching them for an extended period of time.

“Bonehead’s no help,” he sells it confidently with a shrug. “He was too busy educating me on the Exorcist guy. Again.”

“I was drawing similarities,” Holden says from the passenger seat. This is exactly the situation where being a fundamental genius pays off, because despite coming down from an orgasm and desperately hiding a handful of semen, Holden still has the wherewithal to keep his voice steady and only an octave too defensive. He takes his coffee from Bill casually, smooth with his non-dominant hand, even though he thanks Lewis without his standard vaguely unsettling eye contact. Bill has to admit that he’s struggling just as hard to keep a straight face knowing how exorbitantly hidden the other hand is.

“Here.” Lewis seems too distracted to listen any closer, hear the minute shake in Holden’s inhalations, notice the sheen of sweat on Bill’s brow. Two clipboards are shoved through the window, freshly loaded with blank observation sheets that will more than likely stay that way. “Shift change at 2 today. I’ll probably stop for more coffee after I hit the west bank.”

“Sounds great,” Bill says agreeably, his knees zipped together under the board. “Thanks, man. Sorry again.”

Less than interested, Lewis pats the interior of the car door in parting and walks back to his own vehicle, and it takes for-fucking-ever before the quiet rumble of the Coronet fades into the distance. The car is finally, gladly still, silent, dark navy-blue, bathed in nothing but moonlight. 

Holden lets out a long, low sigh. As he turns to look at Bill, he’s snatched by the collar, dragged roughly over the council. 

“Get over here, you piece of shit,” Bill growls.

He gets to lean back into the driver’s seat as Holden snickers, actually snickers, kneeling over and tugging his shirt out of his slacks.

“I can’t even clean this up first?” Holden has the audacity to ask, holding up his hand, watching the cum roll down his wrist.

It must be torture for him to have a mess that close to his cufflinks. Good. Bill grabs his hand and moves it to his belt buckle. “You’ll have a lot more to do in a minute.”

Holden peers up haughtily. “You know, Lewis could come back..."

Bill tugs one of the clipboards out from between the seats. “Then I’m not going down for not getting the work done,” he says, holding it over Holden’s head so he doesn’t have to deal with his egotistical smirk. 

“I work much more than you,” Holden says over the hiss Bill lets out when he leans in to mouth against the side of his cock, hard and leaking against his lips.

“Yeah?” Bill says, one of his hands snaking around the papers to find the back of Holden’s head. He cards through his hair, soft, gentle, then shoves down. “Show me.”

Jim starts dropping them off at the hotel around 6:30, barely waiting for the sun to rise each day before calling it quits and waving them off. It’s fortunate that neither can mask his exhaustion because it makes for a great excuse to get lost, staggering out of the car and slipping into the quiet lobby.

“I’m feeling these nights more than I used to,” Bill grunts as they head for the elevators, flinging his jacket over his shoulder, shirt unbuttoned and only a tiny bit rumpled.

“Only one more,” Holden says. He doesn’t look at Bill as he suppresses a smile. “Unfortunately.”

The door slides open.

**Author's Note:**

> last lines are from the show, david fincher i hope you kudos & subscribe


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